Debt
by sanpan
Summary: Erik owes the daroga more than he lets on. Now it's time to pay the debt. Warnings: Dark, forced slash, violence.
1. Chapter 1

**I know I have another POTO fic pending, but writing things on the side keeps the creative juices flowing. On another note, I do ship Erik/the Persian, but not the way it's presented here. I just wanted to see if I could pull it off in a darker way. In a very dark way.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera**

**Warning: There is slash in this, though not fluffy. There is some non-explicit sex, mentions of drug use, implications of SM, and in the next chapter, there will be a lot of one-sided violence.**

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The former daroga of Mazenderan would like to believe the last he saw the last of poor, unhappy Erik that final day. And that is what he told the young journalist, for the Persian is not proud of their last meeting._ I _am not proud of it, Darius, no, far from it. My man, do not shy away- you know me too well, far too well. Your loyalty is enough to make tears come to my failing eyes. I know you wonder about that night and what I withheld from M. Leroux.

You are an understanding man, Darius. You always have been.

I know why you hated the magician. Do not look so shocked; I understand. The reasons go beyond his face, beyond his crimes, and if it were not for our history together, I know you would hate me too, Darius. In the rosy hours of Mazenderan, I was once an honest man, a pious man.

And I had been all to eager to help the boy, for that was what he was then, a boy. I felt in some way responsible for the troubles the befell him, for it was I that brought him to Tehran in the first place. That was to be both our downfalls.

It is not easy for me to speak of what we owe one another, so I have written it down instead. Promise me, my man, that you will burn my words, though I doubt anyone could read our language, now that Erik is gone. You have masked your disgust at us for far too long. You can let it out now. Burn my words with the rage you have kept pent up.

For here I present them to you, in all their hideous glory.

* * *

When I first met him, he was barely nineteen summers. For all I knew, the boy could have been fifteen. He had always been tall and he had always liked to conduct himself in a manner that made him seem ageless. Unlike me, he maintained all the friskiness of his youth, even in his last years. How we met is of no consequence to you- you already know the story of the Russian fair and the task our shah bestowed upon me.

He was a brilliant boy, one of the sharpest, wittiest, most ingenious human beings I had ever met. Perhaps it is hard for you to imagine, but picture him in his youth. Tall, wild, garbed in black, and the most vibrant pair of amber eyes you shall ever see. They were hopeful, filled to the brim with desire and dreams meant to be broken.

What tempted me was the mask. It was nothing extravagant, simply a dark face meant to blur out his own features. He kept several of them, of all colors, some obtained from the farthest corners of the eastern world.

Picture _me_ in my youth. I was not yet thirty, perhaps little over twenty. You must remember me from back then, a man of fine stature, who bore his nose high, who always kept his beard neatly trimmed, who had the voice of command, who had an exotic jade to tint his irises.

I still do not know which of my features tempted _him_. Perhaps it was none at all.

His name was Erik. Ironic how much his name affects me when my own is all but lost to the world. Even your name makes it into M. Leroux's pages.

Erik was a fantastic magician, as you would know. He was an artist on fire- there seemed to be nothing he was incapable of. I never believed genius existed alongside madness, but he proved me wrong. For a time, the sultana was delighted by his tricks, for that was all they were- Erik was a regular man in the end, with no true magic about him.

You know of the horrors in court, the horrors that Erik helped contribute and create. Yes, the sultana was bored and he had complied with an eagerness I would not expect from someone with morals. He seemed to possess none.

"I like to see the sultana laugh," he had said to me, in that angelic voice.

I do not know what he felt for the sultana or the shah for that matter, but let me tell you, in spite of his claims that he served no one, Erik was pathetically loyal. Their wish was his command. If the sultana wished for him to eat his own head, I do believe he would have. He enjoyed their praise, their attention, their power.

The sin between us started the night he broke for me. I found him in the gardens, covered in sweat and blood, retching and sobbing terribly.

"D- daroga," he whispered, "daroga."

It was the first time I heard him stutter. I kept my eyes trained on his chest, heaving beneath his robes with each breath. Back then, I told myself it was because I could not stand his face. I knew what had happened.

"How many did you kill, Erik?"

He gave a great moan. "I don't know- I thought- I don't know!"

He crumpled at my feet and I bent beside him, a reassuring arm on his back. This was the first time, I believe, he had been asked to build a torture device, an executioner's toy, if you will. I believe I would have reacted the same if I were him. He shivered against me, clinging to the fabric of my clothing and making pleads to me in french.

My heart went out to him then. He was so helpless in my grasp, so frail, and all I wanted to do was hold him. I did that night. I whispered words of reassurance to him, I told him to trust me, I told him that I would be his friend. And yet in the back of my mind, I wondered- what kind of mind could devise such an object in the first place? Erik was a disturbed individual and he would not get better.

If there were women in my life, I have long forgotten them. I forgot their curves and their lashes and their scent. For a time, all I could think about was Erik in my arms, his bones poking me, his thin cold fingers running over me in an almost perverse fashion. After that night, he confided much in me. Bit by bit of his life would peek in through our conversations.

His mother, his fears, his childhood, gypsies- all of it entered my mind and never left, such was my fascination with him. My increasing protectiveness of him. I forgave him for every horror he created, every insult he delivered, every time I had to glance at his excuse for a face.

The sultana was determined to break him. Why, I do not know- it was a sadistic pleasure that I would soon come to understand. I believe she wanted to see him in that state of vulnerability, in that state reserved only for me.

I will not dwell on what else went on in court, but one way or another, Erik turned to morphine. I did not stop him because an illusion is something that will pass and the pain will be tenfold. Without the drug, he turned to... me.

I cannot count how many nights I spent holding his cold body, the smell of death worse each time, whether from the blood on his hands or the blood in my mind, I do not know. It was not long before we lay together. Yes, I admit it at last. In my chambers, your suspicions were correct from the start. He would tempt me with that wry innocence of his, with that childish laugh, with those sad broken gazes. He allowed me to take him.

My mouth would often trace his collarbone, my hands roaming that skull of a head in the dark, pushing myself against his jutting ribs, pushing myself into him. He would cry for me back then. He would moan my name, he would beg, he would sing almost. I lost myself over him.

I knew every scar on his form. He knew every part of body- every mark, every strand of hair, everything. When I was tired, he would beg me to take him. And there were times when he was pushing himself at me, when it was him forcing his kisses on me. We shared this sin evenly. I hope you can understand- what does bread mean when one has tasted meat? I no longer wanted women.

I once had standards, dreams of another wife, another child. Then, all I wanted was _him_.

It was impractical, impossible, but I was young. I wanted him, I believe I almost loved him. I allowed him to do horrible things to me in our revelries, things that would disgust you surely. I would often wake up covered in my own blood or with scratches on my throat, him laughing wildly beside me, for Erik rarely ever truly laughed. He preferred to cackle.

His real laugh was like the sound of bright bells, truly the loveliest thing you shall ever hear.

I suffered as he sunk into his madness, my back raked raw from his nails and my posterior a torturous ache. I put up with his violent tantrums and raging words. And still I wanted him. Still I was faithful in our secret pact. I kept my devotion- I tended his wounds, I nursed his fevers, I administered his morphine, I never failed to bring him raw pleasure. Sometimes in his haze, he would speak of a wife and sunlight and normal things that were much too mundane for my now wild taste. I did not believe him then. Even though I could detect his discontent with me, I foolishly fantasized about whisking him away. I even played with the notion that he disguise himself as my wife, that we leave for Turkey.

I was his faithful slave.

When the shah ordered his death, I was not bothered in the least. All I could do was thank the heavens for my luck- it was I who would bring him to court, so it was I would had the power to save him. You know what happened next- how we worked together to find the replacement body, how I bribed my other friends, friends whose faces I can no longer remember.

What you do not know is what words we exchanged the night he escaped. He had clapped those skeletal hands on my shoulders and looked me in the eye. How sincere he was! How caring! How adoring!

"I cannot possibly repay you," he said.

I merely smiled.

"Wait for me," I said, "Erik will wait for me, will he not?"

"Erik will."

I do not remember when he slipped into the habit of referring to himself in that manner- somewhere in the past years, his broken mind had developed it. If it helped him focus, I did not care.

"The daroga hopes so," I replied.

We bid farewell and he was gone. It was idiotic how I clung to two simple words, the words of a childish madman, no doubt. I suffered willingly when the shah-in-shah found out. I bore the beatings without a trace of regret. I counted the days in jail with a hopeful fervor. The sickening food meant nothing. My lost estate meant nothing. My reputation in shambles, my livelihood gone, my dignity stripped- it all meant nothing.

In the end, all I had was you. We left Persia for good when I was released, hardened and aged. I had lost my home and everything in it. I was simply a laughable foreigner in the world of the west, a caricature of an oriental. By the time we settled in Paris, for that was where Erik said he would go, I was only known as the Persian.

I did not even have my name left. Nothing of _me_ was left. Erik had not waited. He had never waited. And perhaps he had never wanted to wait.

For the last decade or so, when we finally met, he would not let me into his home. He would not let me lie with him. He wanted nothing to do with me besides the occasional show together in his precious box five. He stopped inviting me altogether when the unfortunate chorus girl caught his eye.

Imagine how painful it was for me, to have held onto something that never existed in the first place, all that I cast aside for that one forbidden fruit. Erik was the reason I left Eden. I lost everything for him. And in the dead of night, yearning for his presence, his gaze, his laugh, I had to tell myself with raging sobs that they were all gone.

He had never wanted me. He had never loved me. He had never waited for me.

It was easier to betray his secrets when I came to terms with it all. The safety of Christine Daae and the Vicomte de Chagny were more important than my snubbed affections. At least, that was what I told myself. You know what transpired next.

Erik had let her go, and I delighted at the pain he must have felt- it was the same pain that plagues me every night. And yet the way he spoke of her, the way his eyes shone, the tears he shed, all of it pointed at what could only be love.

There may have been a time when he would brighten at the sight of me, but it was nothing compared to the look he reserved for Daae. I broke for the last time when he left our flat. You recall my glares at the gas lamp, my frantic pacing, my hands wringing. I had made my decision then.

Erik had not held up his side of the bargain. I would force it from him and he would break for me once more.

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**Thanks for reading! Please review if it's not too much a bother (critique, complaints, comments, etc. are all welcome)**

**This is a two-shot (I could have made it a one-shot but didn't want the scrolling button to annoy you), so next chapter, some serious abuse, noncon, and fun things like that.**


	2. Chapter 2

**And here's the final part of this story. I bumped the rating up to M just in case, but if anyone feels that this can get away with a T, please let me know. This is the first time I've ever written a situation like this and I've tried my best to not make it too uncomfortable while keeping a disturbing vibe.**

**Warning: Major non-con, abuse, slash, non-explicit sex**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera**

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Erik had not held up his side of the bargain. I would force it from him and he would break for me once more.

That was my only sentiment when I found myself once more within the confines of the Opera. There are two people who know the Palais Garnier best, one being the ghost, and the other the Persian. I knew nearly every passage he had set, the fruits of years of labor. I knew the way to his house by the lake. I have no doubt that you believe my tale about it.

I was also silent, having learned to be a shadow myself thanks to the prying Shade. It was with this stealth that I managed to steal away an important tool from the Opera stable. And it was with this stealth that I managed to find Erik for the last time. I was careful not to fall into the torture chamber yet again, for I knew there would be no savior this time. And I could not die yet. Not yet.

You saw the state he was in during his last visit. It was nothing compared to how I found him. He had deliberately left his door ajar, perhaps in some silly hope that Christine Daae would pay a final visit. He barely registered that it was I instead.

Erik was sprawled on the floor, eyes nothing but dark holes behind the mask, a skeleton dressed for a funeral, a needle still stuck in his thin scarred arm. I stooped beside him and pried it out, a thin stream of blood gushing from the vein afterwards. I watched the slow rise and fall of his chest, wondering what I would do when he finally died.

"Wake up," I said. He did not stir and I wondered how long he had been lying there. I lifted him gently so that his head was off the ground- it was possible he had intended to leave the house in his drug-induced haze.

"If you wish to leave, I may take you," I told him.

"_Christine_..."

He twitched in my arms, a few moans escaping his mouth. I leaned in closer, bumping against the nose of his mask. "Christine is gone."

He may have been crying. It was hard to tell. Slowly, his yellow eyes came back into focus, clouded with fever. Perhaps he uttered a name.

"Pardon?"

"Daroga..." he whispered.

"That is not what you said, Erik. What is the name?"

"Chri-"

With a rough grasp, I pulled him further upwards. "What is the name?"

"Christine."

"Say my name, Erik! Say it!"

"Oh, daroga..." He gasped for air before a hoarse chuckle entered my ears. He giggled. "Oh, daroga- you do have such a big nose."

"I saved your life, remember. I guarded you! Erik, I am all you have now."

The morphine seemed to be losing its hold, at least by a fraction. He seemed to understand his situation. "I still have mother," he whimpered.

He was emaciated, ill, delirious, and oh so helpless in my grasp. It was a reminder of the first night he spent in my arms, and that was fueled my anger. I lowered my voice, keeping it in a tone of false sympathy.

"But Erik," I said, astonished, "poor, unhappy mother is dead."

"D- dead?"

I knew I had struck the right target in his delusions.

"Yes, dead- she could not bear to look at her little son's ugly face. You should be sorry."

"But... mask-"

"She is dead."

"Oh."

He said nothing for a good few moments. I began standing up, pulling him with me, his head drooping on my shoulder. "You see, Erik, mother had always hated you, you told me, remember?"

"Ah."

Perhaps he felt that I was another illusion, another ghost in his defeated mind. I would be sure to correct him. I all but dragged him out of the house, occasionally interrupted by his mad laughter and sobs in turn. When we finally reached the cellar's brightest corridor, I removed my jacket before I pinned him to the wall, breathing heavily by his ear.

"Say my name."

"Erik does not want to," he replied groggily.

"Damn you!" I struck him in the abdomen, a hard blow that I had wanted to deliver since the day I realised what I meant to him. He gasped, falling against me with a cough.

"You said you would wait," I said, feeling my own voice grow strained and weak, "You said you would wait for me."

He had the audacity to laugh at me. I threw him back against the wall, nails digging into his shoulders. I stared at him and when he realised my feelings were genuine, his cackles echoed all around us.

"Silly daroga! You silly booby!"

He was still laughing as I ripped the buttons off his shirt, as I threw his jacket aside, as I exposed his pale flesh to my eyes. I undid my trousers just barely, and angrily turned him around, making sure to wrench his arms behind him. I pulled at his trousers and soon I was reliving the rosy hours, in a far redder, far more painful fashion. I refused to relent as his laughs turned into strained moans.

"I gave you everything," I gasped. "Everything!"

He lacked the strength to struggle against me. Blood leaked down his legs. "I- I- would- have- died- for- you!"

He was crouching by then, pressed against the wall, panting and sweating. I traced the back of his neck with my mouth, biting and crashing against the skin. Eventually, he fell to the ground, me on top of him. I rolled him on his back, roaming his chest and stomach with my bruising kisses. Too long had I waited for that moment. Too long he had denied me. The contour of his body, though skinnier if even possible, had not changed one bit.

"Do you know what I suffered!?"

He groaned, struggling to escape my weight. My nails clawed at his flesh, leaving streaks of blood on his chest. I rolled up my sleeves, keeping him pinned between my legs. I flashed my scars at him.

"All those years in jail!"

I reached for his mask, violently undoing the strings and tossing it against the wall. He immediately began squirming. "Erik told you not to look, you great booby!" he rasped.

"I shall look whenever I want- you owe me that much," I growled.

I covered his face with a hand, ignoring his grunts of protest. With little civility, I tore his shirt off, ripping the fine fabric, and let it join the lump of his articles by the wall. He was on his side, trying to curl, too weak to fight. I had my arms wrapped around him, fingers tracing each manmade mark that marred his body. I thrust with a terrible fervor, shouting at him every curse, every lament that I could muster. I did not care if I went to hell, for he would be there to join me. I felt him tighten and scream.

At last, I removed myself from him, shaking and soaked in sweat. Panting, I began unbuttoning my own shirt, noting with satisfaction the small pool of blood around him.

"How did- did that feel?"

He shuddered. "Erik does... not want to tell you." He laughed sharply. "The Persian can simply not take a hint. He cannot make Erik do what Erik does not want to do." He humphed and groaned.

I licked my lips, feeling the sweat drip from my brow. "We shall have to see."

I approached my discarded jacket and pulled from its pocket a coiled object. He stared at it with tentative eyes. I saw another shudder leave him. I let the whip roll to its full length.

"Surely he will now," I said without a trace of conviction.

A grotesque grin formed on his lips. I looked death in the face and frowned, the fire in my being not yet quenched. "Stand up," I ordered, though I knew it was futile.

"No!" He broke into another peal of laughter. I knew he could not stand even if he wanted to, not after what I had done. The whip still in my hand, I pulled him to his feet with considerable effort and once more stuck him to the wall, his face wrenched to the side, his back facing me. I stepped back, assured he would not fall.

"Did you honestly think you are the only one to know heartbreak?" I asked him, rather resigned, momentarily nauseated by what I was about to do.

The scar tissue on his back glared at me, as if daring me to reopen them.

"Oh, daroga. There was never anything between you and I," he sighed in a sudden moment of clarity.

The nausea faded and I cracked the whip against his back, flecks of blood flying out as the skin broke. I brought it down again and again, until the scars were covered in red. Each lashing my person took in Tehran, each beating my heart received, I returned to him twofold.

"Remember what we used to do, Erik!" I cried, bringing it on him again.

His moans turned to yells of pain. I was in ecstasy, for even his cries were music to my ears. I _destroyed_ his flesh.

"You made me scream! What pleasure we took!"

There was not a trace of white left on his back. But I refused to stop. Crack! Crack! Crack!

"You hypocrite! You traitor! You monster!" Crack! Crack! Crack!

"You liar!" Crack! Crack! "You bastard!" Crack! Crack! "Who tended to you so faithfully!?" Crack! "Who comforted you!?" Crack! "Who did you plead for!?" Crack! "Who saved you!?" Crack!

His distorted laugh mixed with each screech of pain. I had moved away from his back, bringing the weapon down on his limbs, on his head, until he was drenched in streaks of red. He fell at last, and I was once again rubbing myself against him. Crack! I struck at his chest, at his torso, again, again, again, again, and again. It was a terrible seizure that had overtaken me. Every hurt I threw at him.

Crack! Crack! "Say my name!" Crack! Crack!

"Daroga!"

The whip fell from my hands and he was buckling beneath me, mocking me with his laughter and pleasing me with his screams. I had resorted to pummeling him with my bare hands. I do not know how long this went on, as my mind was too monstrous then to think. By then, lost in that world of blood, sweat, and screams, I no longer knew what I even wanted from him.

An apology? An excuse? A declaration of love?

Once again, I realised it was all for nothing. I would always be nothing to him. And even if I received an hour of savage vengeance, I would never be pleased. I let him collapse limply on the ground, little pools of blood surrounding his wounds, his legs parted from my violation.

I was shaking as I stood over him, my hands numb and moist while they pulled up my wet trousers. My breath came out in sharp gasps, my heart threatening to leap from my rib cage. The heat was gone and I was left in a sick sheen of sweat, my hair matted from the frenzy. Clumsily, I buttoned my soaked shirt and retrieved my jacket.

I allowed myself a moment to let the bile leave my throat before I set eyes on Erik. My thoughts went back to the boy he once was and I retched again. Damn him. Damn me.

There used to be a point of time where I would have done anything to shield him from harm. I felt hollow at what I done. Disgusted, I stared at the fresh blood on my dark knuckles. I retrieved his mask and clothes, trembling all the while.

I had broken him, Darius. I had done the deed- he was free of our debt. I considered taking the whip, but the blood on it repulsed me. I left it be. What happened next is a moment of blankness for me. I remember kneeling by his side, stroking the sparse hairs on his head, monotonously repeating the words of comfort I had once said to him in Mazenderan.

I may have been sickened, perhaps even remorseful, but I was not satisfied. Even with the two of us reduced to this pathetic state, I was still the one who lost. The debt could never truly have been paid. With a broken cry, I tangled his hair in my hands and yanked the strands out, an audible sound accompanying the action. I hauled him into my arms for the last time and we returned to the house by the lake, taking everything with me save the whip. That object and the crimson stains were the only evidence of what had transpired- they were the only things I could not erase.

"Poor, unhappy daroga," he muttered in my ear, his voice a far cry from what it once was, "My poor Persian."

I do not know whether or not he was mocking me. But he had not said my name. It was evident that he would not be conscious for a long time when we arrived at his home. He was light, all blood and bone, and even that horrid face could not compete against what the rest of his body now was. I had wanted to leave then and there, but there was still the lurking possibility that the girl would return to bury him. She did not deserve to behold the terrible sight I created.

She was one of those rare untainted creatures. In another life, that is what Erik and I could have been.

For her sake, I cleaned the blood from his naked person and bandaged the vicious lash marks, with what remained of Erik's few medical rolls. They were used up by the time I finished. I spent hours rummaging in his home, taking care to dress him in an evening suit and fasten the mask on his face. I had effectively hidden most of the damage, only a few bruises on his throat and hands showing. I lay him in his coffin when all was done.

He was clean and I was a mess, my clothes stained with his blood and layer upon layer of sweat. Everything shook and ached, the smell of urine still heavy in my nostrils.

I said no more to him. I did not even bid him a silent farewell. I am sure Erik died that night, if not the next day. He would have died of infection, if not illness and whatever else ailed him. This, I concealed from the reporter. My lie came later, when a few days later, I submitted Erik's death to the L'Epoque obituary. I never received word from Erik himself that he had died, and I doubt he ever woke up again.

The blood you saw on me that night I returned, so weary and sick, was his.

* * *

Now you know everything, Darius. When it comes to Erik, all I have are regrets and false memories. The blood that night might as well have been mine. I was bitter and angry, desperate for a last reassurance, a reassurance he did not give me.

And still I have not let go of him, Darius. My thoughts still wander to him every now and then. That night consumes my nightmares. But often, the event takes a different turn. Sometimes it is he holding the whip, sometimes the girl never came, sometimes we are still in Mazenderan. I have dreams where he whispers my name with a gentle caress, where he promises to wait, and there is no such thing as a broken promise.

In my dreams, I never strike him. There is never any blood and he never screams in anything but pleasure. There, he is still that boy I met in Russia, pure and bright-eyed, and I am trapped in a timeless world with no such thing as sin.

Forgive me, Darius, for withholding this from you. I could not bring myself to pray, even for salvation, since that night. I have not prayed for so long. I do not deserve forgiveness but still I ask, pray with me one last time, my man.

You have lit the fire. I am sorry for it all. That look of pity on your face... come, let us put these demons to rest.

Come, pray with your master. Pity him, hate him, forget him, and perhaps one day, you may forgive him.

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**The end. Thanks for reading! And reviews are always welcome (critique, comments, etc.)**

**Once again, this is not part of my headcanon and I don't think the Persian is this depraved a person at all. I hope my characterizations aren't too zany and that for those of you who read this of your own accord, you enjoyed it as a story.**


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